Mr. Ortega entered with a leather briefcase, followed by a woman from a forensic accounting firm. Helena explained everything in the same even tone she used to order coffee. Five months earlier, she had found a hotel receipt in Nathan’s jacket. Instead of confronting him, she hired an auditor. The audit showed that Nathan had billed his weekends with Tiffany to client entertainment accounts at Holloway Strategies, a total of $214,000 across two years, and every cent of it belonged to a company Helena controlled.

Then Mr. Ortega opened a second folder. Before the wedding, Nathan had signed a prenuptial agreement, certain it protected his firm. Buried on page nine was a clause stating that infidelity combined with misuse of company funds forfeited his claim to the Cambridge house and to every share he held. “You once told me you never read the fine print,” Helena said. “So I read it for both of us.” Nathan lowered himself onto the arm of the couch, unable to speak.

He finally found his voice and begged. Tiffany meant nothing, he said, and he would repay every dollar. Helena told him the repayment would come from his forfeited shares. Earlier that evening, she had called the directors, and they had voted by phone to remove him as chief executive, effective at sunrise. “Why did you tell me to come home?” he whispered. “So no one could say you were locked out,” she answered. “Mr. Ortega needed to hand you these in person.” She set the papers in his trembling hands.

Nathan signed the settlement that Monday. He repaid the money, resigned, and moved into an apartment across the river. The divorce finalized four months later. Helena promoted the partner who had warned her about the expense reports, sold the Cambridge house, and bought a cottage on Cape Cod, a place he had once planned to visit with someone else. On her first night there, she heated the leftover pasta, sat by the window, and for the first time in four years, she was not waiting for anyone to come home.